


The Show Must Go On

by cam_and_dean



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: M/M, Poetry, Prompt Fic, Slam Poetry, anderperry, poem fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5611417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cam_and_dean/pseuds/cam_and_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Neil and Todd are on a slam poetry team where Todd is their best writer and Neil is their best performer. Todd writes material about Neil and Neil reads it thinking about Todd but neither one realizes this and thinks the other must like someone else. (via phonecallfromgod on tumblr)<br/>--<br/>There's a big poetry slam competition coming up between the Dead Poets Society and the Welton Wordsmiths and the boys are going to have to break out the big guns if they want to win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Show Must Go On

Ever since Todd Anderson was a little boy, he was a poet. For years, he kept little scraps of paper under his mattress where he scribbled little poems or ideas for poems or words that rhyme that he can use in poems, tucked in deep so his family would never find them.

When he left for Welton, Todd had to gather every little scrap and rid of the evidence before his mom came in an helped him collect all his things to pack away. He’d start from scratch at Welton. Maybe in a journal this time. As long as no one could ever find it.

Ever since Neil Perry was a little boy, he was a performer. Not in the traditional sense; he never performed in plays or sang, but he carried himself with the charisma and confidence of any big-time actor. Performing was in his veins.

Neil was also the founding member of Welton’s Slam Poetry Club, with his teacher Mr. Keating as the advisor. He and his friends Charlie, Pitts, Meeks, and Knox formed a team called the Dead Poets Society, and they were pretty good. Almost good enough to beat their big competitors, The Welton Wordsmiths. Just almost.

Being Neil’s new roommate (and quickly becoming his friend), Todd was present for most of the Dead Poets Society practices, but he generally kept his mouth shut and listened, and everyone was fine with it. He was a quiet kid, not a real performer. He didn’t think he be much help on their team, and the boys (silently) agreed.

That is, until one day in Mr. Keating’s class, when Todd pulled his _unbelievable_ free-verse poem out of nowhere. That day, Neil knew two things: (1) Todd would be the key to winning the big Poetry Slam coming up, and (2) Neil maybe-kinda-a-little-bit had a crush on him.

From that point on for about a week, Neil and the others tried just about anything to get Todd to be the head writer on their team. Eventually, he relented on the condition that no one was to know that he wrote the poems. He gave Neil and Charlie (Neil being the main performer and Charlie being his right-hand man) permission to take all the credit.

Todd churned out poem after poem with topics ranging from school to nature to parents to basically anything he could think of, but his best poems, hands down, were the ones about love. He never used names or pronouns; no one would ever know that his poems were all about Neil.

When Neil read his most recent poem aloud, he asked the question Todd had been dreading ever since he joined the club.

“You are everything, I am nothing, but you’ve given me something, now I’ve got a reason to hold on,” Neil read. “You are the spark that gives me life on the blackest of nights and I’ll be nothing again when you’re gone?”

“It’s not done yet. I can make it better if you don’t like it,” Todd suggested, confusing the interrogative intonation for negative feedback.

“No! No, I love it, Todd! It’s just… I’ve been dying to ask…”

“Oh no,” Todd was already blushing.

“You write all of these beautiful love poems and I just wanna know who they’re about!”

“They’re not about anyone.”

“I don’t believe you for a second. I mean, they’re so sincere!”

“Honestly, I’m just making things up as I go along. If I fall in love with a girl, I’ll let you know.” Ha, as if. “Now read the rest. With more energy,” Todd demanded and Neil laughed before giving the poem the gusto and sincerity it deserved.

This was one of Todd and Neil’s new favorite pastimes. Neil would steal whatever Todd was writing out of his hands and Todd would pretend to be upset and then listen as Neil read his lyrics. He’d absorb his own verse dripping from Neil’s tongue like honey and he’d pretend that the words of love and longing were from Neil to him. All the while, Neil would read the words of love and longing and pretend they were for Todd to him. They were idiots in love.

The next day, Todd brought his new poem to the cave where the Dead Poets Society met and Neil read it aloud for everyone to hear it. Everyone applauded at the end, cheering on both the writer and the performer and, inevitably, asking Todd who his muse was. Once again he shrugged off the question, insisting that it’s not based on anyone in particular. He didn’t notice Neil’s look of disappointment when he was forced to hear, once again, that Todd didn’t have feelings for anyone.

Days went on like this. The Dead Poets Society wrote their poems and reconvened to read them. Outside of the club, Todd and Neil spent long nights reading and writing beautiful romantic poems to each other and pretending they weren’t falling profoundly in love.

With one day until the big competition, the boys finally settled on a set list. It had one poem for each of the boys to read, with Neil’s as the finale.

When they got to the auditorium where the slam was being held, Mr. Keating skimmed their set list.

“Where’s your sixth piece?” Keating asked.

“What? We only have five,” Charlie responded.

“Six members means six poems, boys. The Welton Wordsmiths have 6 as well.”

“We don’t have anymore, Mr. Keating! What do you want us to do?” Meeks asked.

“Looks like Todd is gonna have to pull another masterpiece out of his ass,” mocked Cameron, the head performer for the other team.

“No way in hell are we making him do that,” Neil defended his roommate.

“If he can’t perform a piece, then he can’t be on the team. And that means you can’t perform any pieces he wrote. I’m sorry, boys, but those are the rules,” Keating was sincerely sorry, but he couldn’t show favoritism by bending the rules for his top students.

“So that means you forfeit,” Cameron announced.

“Shut up, Cameron. You’re just mad you didn’t make our team,” Charlie argued.

“Guys, stop. I… I have a poem. I’ll read it, okay? I’m no performer but… the show must go on, right, Neil?” Todd looked at his friend with so much love in his eyes and watched the boy’s face light up like a Christmas tree.

“Yeah, man. The show must go on,” Neil answered. There was a buzz of yawps and the-show-must-go-ons as the boys all cheered for their team.

“Alright, alright, simmer down boys. Let’s start the show!” Mr. Keating announced while the boys went offstage, “first up, Richard Cameron representing the Welton Wordsmiths!”

The Wordsmiths performance was pretty good. They had the words down pat, but what they lacked was something the Dead Poets Society had only recently gained with their new member. Cameron’s team had no heart. They may have done well on the Pritchard scale, but it was too calculated. Their poetry was good for the sake of being good. The Dead Poets were good because they truly believed that words and ideas could change the world. They believed in their poetry.

Finally, it was the Dead Poets’ turn to go on. Meeks, Pitts, and Knox shared poems written by Todd with all the love and power they deserved. Charlie shared his own work, using the sonorous sound of the saxophone as accompaniment. Next up was Neil, who was bouncing off the walls backstage while Todd gave him the world’s most timid motivational speech. When he went on, he read:

 _“You are everything, I am nothing_   
_But you’ve given me something_   
_Now I’ve got a reason to hold on_   
_You are the spark that gives me light_   
_On the blackest of nights_   
_And I’ll be nothing again when you’re gone._   
_You are the sky, I am the ground_   
_When I’m with you there’s nothing that can keep me down_   
_Now I’ve got a reason to breathe_   
_You are the summer and I am the spring_   
_I’m nothing, I’m nothing, you are everything_ _  
_ Now please, if you love me, don’t leave.”

When he was backstage, beyond where the audience could see, he practically melted into Todd’s arms.

“That was amazing, Neil.”

“You’re gonna do even better,” Neil promised.

“Yeah, right.”

“I believe in you.”

“I love you,” Todd said, regretting it immediately after. _Shit, what the hell? Why did I say that? Oh my god, I’m gonna throw up._ Before Neil could even respond, Keating announced:

“Last but certainly not least, Todd Anderson representing the Dead Poets Society!”

“Okaywellgottagobye,”  said Todd, and he walked onto the stage, trembling. As he looked out into the crowd, he was absolutely terrified. He started:

_“I had a dream about loving you._

_And in that dream you loved me too._

_And that's how I knew, that's how I knew_

_It was only just a dream.”_

He stopped. _The show must go on, the show must go on,_ he thought, but it didn’t help. The crowd looked confused. _The show must go on for Neil._ He started up again, though he could barely get the words out.

_“I had a dream about touching your skin_

_Breathing you in, breathing you in_

_I had a dream about love and sin_

_But it was only just a dream”_

He looked backstage and saw Neil. While Todd was shaking and lost, Neil was like a beacon. _I love you too,_ Neil mouthed, and it was like a light was flipped on. Todd’s voice got stronger as he continued:

_“I dreamt of you just holding me tight_

_Holding me close in your arms for the night_

_And everything in this damn world felt right_

_But it was only just a dream._

_I had a dream and you were there_

_But that dream quickly faded into a nightmare_

_I woke up screaming that the world wasn't fair_

_It was only just a dream.”_

The crowd applauded and Neil ran onto the stage to take his best friend into his arms. You know, in a platonic way.

“I’m so proud of you,” Neil said. All of the Dead Poets Society boys came to join the two boys in a group hug. The Welton Wordsmiths came onto the stage to hear the judges announce the winner.

After five long minutes, Mr. Keating came onto the stage.

“After careful deliberation, the judges have decided that the winner of this year’s Welton Poetry Slam is,” he imitated a drumroll, “the Dead Poets Society!”

The crowd applauded and cheered and the boys once again formed a huddle in celebration.

Eventually the boys went back to their rooms, some disappointed, some overjoyed. But the two that won the most in that poetry slam were Todd and Neil, and no one knew it but them.

When they were alone in their dorm room, Neil tackled Todd to the bed.

“My boyfriend is Walt Whitman!” Neil yelled.

“Boyfriend?” With Todd’s question, Neil suddenly went from enthusiastic to timid.

“I mean… I was thinking… you know… will you be my boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, Neil, I’ll be your boyfriend.”

Neil kissed with all the passion he could muster and Todd kissed him back the same way. These boys were so damn in love. They fell asleep in Neil’s bed, curled up together on the tiny twin sized mattress.

They woke up facing each other, both smiling.

“I had a dream about loving you,” Neil said to Todd.

“Oh yeah?”

“And in that dream you loved me too.”

“Of course.”

“I woke up with your body next to mine.”

“Mmmhmm.” Todd mumbled, kissing Neil’s neck.  

“And I thought to myself...” he paused.  

“Yes?” Todd asked, looking into his boyfriend’s eyes.

“It’s about damn time.”


End file.
